


Give Me Hope in the Darkness

by lostinparallel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinparallel/pseuds/lostinparallel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the times Bucky was afraid of losing Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Hope in the Darkness

Sunlight glints across blindingly white walls. A breeze streams through the open window, chilling but gentle, and the sheer curtains flutter like spectres. Bucky’s legs have gone numb. His back aches, hunched over in a rickety wooden stool at the side of Steve’s bed. He stares down at his hands, picking furiously at the skin around his fingernails in a desperate attempt at distracting himself.

A low wheeze breaks the silence and Bucky’s heart misses a beat.

Pale skin stretches across bone. Steve’s blond hair clings to his clammy forehead. He looks young – too young to be hurting so much, all hollow cheeks and rasping breath. His eyes remain closed, dark lashes casting shadows across his skin where the light caresses his face.

Despair grips Bucky once more, cold and merciless. He grasps Steve’s hand, entwining their fingers together, and exhales slowly when he feels a faint heartbeat thrum against his palm.

The nurses tell him he shouldn't be here, that a hospital is no place for a boy. And yet the building is filled with hundreds of kids, rows of beds filled with tired children and crying parents. Footsteps echo across the wooden floor. Bucky can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from Steve. So he holds his breath, straightens his back and damns whichever doctor has come to tell him to go home.

To his surprise, Mrs Rogers sinks into the chair at the other side of Steve’s bed. A frown pulls at her features, dark circles clinging to the skin under her eyes. Her blonde hair is held up in a tight bun and dark yellow splotches stain her nurse uniform. The spatters of red smeared across the white fabric make Bucky’s stomach drop.

She leans over and tucks a strand of hair behind Steve’s ear.

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, slipping his hand out of Steve’s weak grip and dropping it uselessly in his lap. The room is deafeningly quiet, save for Steve’s shallow gasps and the cutting draft that seeps through the window.

“The doctor doesn't think he’s goin’ to make it,” says Mrs Rogers. Her voice is soft, and Bucky wants to scream at the bittersweet smile gracing her lips.

“Lots’a people think things. Doesn't mean they’re right,” says Bucky tightly. The hand that was curled around Steve’s fingers is cold, trembling pathetically against his thigh. He clenches it into a fist.

“He was… always very fond of you, you know.”

Chair legs scrape against the floor and Bucky leaps to his feet.

Mrs Rogers watches him wearily, tears shining in her empty eyes. She ignores the way Bucky’s hands shake – ignores the tremble of his lower lip and the frantic hitching of his breath.

The smile finally drops from her face, leaving nothing but bare, twisted agony.

Bucky staggers out of the room as quickly as his quivering legs will allow him. Shoes clatter against the polished wooden tiles. He runs and runs until his vision blurs with unshed tears and his lungs scream for air. Eventually, his feet hit the concrete and the hum of traffic fills his ears.

 _He was always—he was..._ She talks about Steve like he’s already dead.

Bucky loses himself to the noise. His back slides down a brick wall, searing friction into his skin and he crumples to the floor, chest heaving as he sobs into his hands.

**

Bucky stares lifelessly at the tent ceiling looming over him. The ground is hard against his spine, cracked mud frozen over by the harsh onslaught of winter. He rolls onto his side and pulls the tattered woollen blanket higher around his neck.

Images of the evening flash in his restless mind: the men’s careless laughter, the crackling fire, the whiskey burning down his throat like acid. He thinks of Steve, healthy and strong and a good few inches taller than him, glowing in the warm light of the fire – a halo of treacherous flame.

It burns him, the memory of song and mirth, of Steve surrounded by men who respect and admire him, men who would follow him to the ends of the Earth. Steve has finally gotten everything Bucky had ever wanted for him, and yet something dark festers in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. The weight of the realisation that Steve doesn't need him anymore, crawling like lice under his skin and gnawing at his conscience.

He hates himself for it – for thinking so selfishly, but it’s all he’s ever known. Protect Steve. Watch his back. Pull him out when he pushes too far.

The space beside him is empty, a cold imprint on the sleeping mat where Steve’s body once lay. Bucky had pushed him away, of course. Closed off, shut down – _he doesn't need you he doesn't want you._

His chest tightens like hands around his throat. He sputters, palms digging into his closed eyes to stem the flow of panic.

“Sergeant James Barnes… 32557.”

The words tumble past his lips. He breathes deeply, wholly, filling his chest until the tension is unbearable and expelling the hot air all at once. It’s funny, really. Steve was always the one who couldn't breathe.

Bucky rolls onto his other side, away from the blank space and the crushing absence of Steve, and begs for sleep to take him.

The sun begins to rise, creeping over the hillside in a silent ambush. When Bucky finally drifts off, he dreams of needles piercing his skin, electricity flooding his brain, and an endless stream of screaming ringing in his skull.

**

They surround him. Grey walls and a dirty, brown floor – men in black, their guns trained on him.

The air is stale. The Soldier’s flesh arm aches where he ripped the IV out of his vein, jolting himself from a fragmented memory. The past is all broken glass now, jagged shards scattered at his feet. Pierce never fails to tread them into the dust.

“ _Bucky – no!_ ”

He remembers falling, screaming. A limp corpse being dragged through the red snow. Then – the mechanic whirring, shrieking in his ears, tearing the flesh around his bloodied stump.

“ _You are to be the new fist of HYDRA…_ ”

His breathing is laboured now and his eyes stare without seeing.

White light flashes across a metal limb. He can’t feel – his left side is nothing but numbness, so he wraps his hand around the doctor’s throat and _squeezes_ until he feels bone snapping beneath his fingers.

It all crumbles away, and there is the man on the bridge.

The man is in deep anguish, his mouth hanging open in a silent plea. His strong jaw and muscular frame melts away into a wisp of a boy with gaunt cheeks and fragile bones. But his eyes remain the same, blue and bright and filled with adoration. A smile pulls at the man's lips as a large hand reaches to brush his bangs away from his face.

Metal crawls along the hand, encasing it in a steely prison, and the man on the bridge vanishes.

A harsh slap across The Soldier’s cheek tears him from the memory. He tastes blood in his mouth and spits onto the floor.

Pierce’s eyes bore into his, a scowl plastered to his cold features. The Soldier stiffens, limbs heavy and heart hammering. His gaze fixes on a faraway thought.

“The man on the bridge… who was he?”

Pierce pauses. His eyes flicker briefly to The Soldier’s metal arm.

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” he says firmly.

“…I knew him.”

**

_He splits the air like a bullet, plummeting through the emptiness until he pierces the water’s surface. Icy fingers pull him under, dragging him beneath the waves as Steve’s body sinks further into the darkness._

_He reaches. His metal arm weighs him down but he doesn't falter. Water rushes into his lungs, pumping through his veins with the blood and the memory and the fear._

_He drowns – another variant of the same nightmare where he fails to protect Steve. They all end the same way, with the light in Steve’s eyes fading into shadows and guilt clawing at Bucky’s throat._

 

The brisk, night air washes over him. Cold breath brushes across scarred skin. He blinks into the darkness, hands skimming over stone tiles with his back pressed against a glass door.

His eyes scan over the balcony railing and he stares blankly into the street below. Tarmac glimmers with the orange light of the streetlamps. The grass twinkles with the aftermath of last night’s rainfall, buried under a graveyard of dead, decaying leaves.

He can still feel the water flooding his airways, sealing over his head like an icy tomb. He wheezes, choking out his rank and serial number as tears burn his eyes. His voice echoes in the quiet. The street is emptier than his mind, and he’s feels himself drowning in the silence.

There’s a distant exhale of breath, then a ruffling of bed sheets followed by soft footsteps. Bucky slams his eyes shut against the sound.

_Don’t let him see you like this._

“Buck…?”

Steve treads over to him and drapes a blanket over his bare shoulders. The cotton shifts against the scarring where his metal arm fuses to his skin. He shivers.

“It’s alright. It’s me.”

Bucky’s heart clenches painfully. He opens his eyes, because hearing the break in Steve’s voice is far worse than seeing the remorse eating at his expression. All of the insecurity and locked away thoughts scramble through Bucky’s head. He exhales slowly, keeping his eyes trained on the grey horizon.

“You’re goin’ to leave me,” he says.

Steve panics, eyes widening as he fumbles with his words, “Bucky, no – I wouldn't. Not ever.”

“Why not?” Bucky snaps.

Steve backs away, giving him space. “Bucky, I—”

“I'm not _him_ anymore!”

Steve’s mouth slams shut. His face contorts into a look of grief.

“He’s—he’s dead. And I can’t keep… pretending.” Dread rises in Bucky’s throat. He splutters, hands twisting frantically around the blanket material.

Steve inches forwards, sorrow etched into his features. He presses his forehead to Bucky’s, eyes closed, fingers curling around Bucky’s trembling palms.

“I’d rather have you, whoever you decide to be. As long as it’s you,” he says tenderly.

Eventually, Bucky’s breathing evens out and his body stops shaking. He sighs, letting his eyes fall shut as metal entwines with real, flesh hands.

And maybe – just maybe – this will be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by Ghosts That We Knew by Mumford & Sons  
> listen to my stevebucky fanmix here: http://8tracks.com/elena_brai/end-of-the-line


End file.
